A Rip Through Time(43)

“I finished the book you allowed me to read, sir. Thank you very much for that.”

“Oh?” That catches his attention. “Already?”

“It was very informative. Did you notice Song Ci mentions looking under fingernails for signs of bamboo splints, indicating torture? I have marked the page if you would like to show it to Detective McCreadie. In the meantime, perhaps there is another book I could read on forensic science?”

“You are welcome to any in the library, Catriona.”

Not quite what I was hoping for, but he really is distracted by whatever he’s doing, and the fact that he hasn’t shooed me out should prove that Isla hasn’t shared her suspicions.

“Thank you, sir. Again, if there’s anything I can do, I will ensure I still complete my chores and do not force anyone else to perform them.”

He hesitates, and my breath catches.

He runs his hand over his chin, dark with stubble. “I do not suppose you have remembered how to shave.”

As my hopes plummet, my brain spins. Could I manage it? That would make him happy and give us time to talk, give me time to prove I’m genuinely interested in his studies and would make an excellent replacement for James the lost assistant.

Except I have no idea how to use a straight razor and might slit his throat.

Damned ethical dilemmas.

He rubs at his stubble, and I can’t help noticing the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, his ink-dappled fingers.

The letter. I have done so well forgetting that damned letter, and I really don’t need it creeping back now.

Yes, Gray’s a good-looking guy. Yes, he’s an interesting guy. But he’s my boss and hell, no. Scrub that letter from my brain, please.

“Catriona?”

I wrench my gaze away and manage a shallow curtsy. “Apologies, sir. I was thinking of how much I hate to refuse such a simple request, but I do fear that if I wield a razor, we may end up with an unexpected display of blood splatter to study.”

His laugh is so unexpected that I jump a little.

“I understand,” he says. “If you do recall how to use a razor, though, I would appreciate it. While I have no interest in expanding the household, that is the one downfall to a lack of male indoor staff.”

“I’ll try to recall the skill, sir.”

“Please do. Oh, and speaking of male staff, Simon is gathering the day’s papers for me. Please bring them to me immediately. I am most interested in what the press has to say regarding our killer.”

Our killer? That’s promising.

“Might I read them after you, sir? I am also interested.”

“Of course,” he says, and he returns to contemplating the mysteries of the blank wall before I’m even out the door.





FIFTEEN


I’m dusting in the drawing room when boots clomp in the hall. I’ve come to dread that sound, because it means someone just came in from outdoors, and they’re tracking mud across my clean floors. I can’t just say, “Screw it, I already washed those.” Nope, I need to grab a bucket and re-mop before Mrs. Wallace spots dirt.

All of this could be solved if they’d take off their damned boots or shoes at the door, like a proper Canadian. I remember the first time we visited American friends, and I realized they don’t even switch to indoor shoes. What kind of heathens traipse through the house in the same shoes they just wore outside, through mud and dog dirt and God knows what else?

At least I must credit the average non-Canadian with having the sense to remove obviously dirty footwear. Not so in Victorian Scotland, where guys walk in from tromping along a horseshit-laden road and track it all on my clean floors. Why? Because I’m here. I exist to clean it up.

“So they were not telling tales,” a male voice says in a thick country brogue. “You really did rise from the dead.”

I turn to see a young man. He’s in his late teens, with a mop of dark brown hair, sharp features, and a grin that lights up blue-gray eyes.

“Not even going to say hello, Cat?” he asks. “I suppose it takes more than a bump on the head to forget you’re angry with me.”

That’s when I notice the stack of newspapers in his hand.

“Simon,” I say, and try not to add a question mark.

“Well, I ought to be glad you didn’t forget my name.” He walks into the drawing room and slaps the stack of papers on a side table. “These are for Dr. Gray. See he gets them as quick as you can. And…” He casts a glance around and then lowers his voice. “I know you are displeased with me, Cat, and I wish it were otherwise. I miss your conversation.”

His grin sparks, and I try not to inch back. Dear lord, Catriona, how many boys were you dangling on your bonnet strings?

Simon sobers. “Yet as much as I miss you, Cat, I won’t be changing my mind. Colin Findlay is a good man, and I’ll not have you doing him wrong for a bit o’ fun and a few bob.”

“Police Constable Findlay?”

His brows rise. “You know another?”

“No, just…” I clear my throat. “Remind me why we are at odds over Constable Findlay.”

He arches one brow, and I tap my temple. “My memory, remember?”

“We are ‘at odds’ as you put it because the poor man is besotted, and you bat your eyes at him, so he’ll court you with pretty trinkets and baubles that you sell as quick as you can. It isn’t right.”